Fallout
by carnivorousteeth
Summary: Four years after the Second Wizarding War has come to a close, everything has changed. Harry and Ron have gone on to become Aurors, Luna took over editing the Quibbler, while Neville and Hermione returned to Hogwarts to teach Herbology and Defense Against the Dark Arts, respectively. However, there is another new professor at Hogwarts this year, one they never expected to see...


_Homecoming_

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses. I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even _stopper death_..."

Draco Malfoy allowed his voice to trail away as he finished his circuit of the familiar dungeon classroom, the classroom that now belonged to him.

Turning to face the crowd of nervous first years seated before him, he continued, "These are the words that were spoken to me the very first time I sat where you are now. A bit dramatic for my taste, but I've never met a man more gifted at a cauldron than the one who said them, so I repeat them to you now. Potion-making is a complicated, delicate art that can, if perfected, place wonders, immortality, and invincibility in a bottle. If it is not taken seriously, however...if it is done without care...it can incapacitate. It can devastate. It can _obliterate_.

"The skills you will learn in this class will serve you just as well as any spell, perhaps even more so as there are many potions that refuse to reveal their secrets when tested by magic alone. Some of you will excel naturally, and some of you will not. For those of you who find potion-making difficult, you will struggle, _badly_, and will likely burn your eyebrows off at least once in this room. On those occasions it is important to remember that everyone makes mistakes, and that in the face of disastrous results, there is yet knowledge that can be gained. For example," he pointed out one uncertain looking Gryffindor boy about halfway back, "I'd suggest you not keep your madcap powder so close to your horned snail mucus. When the two come in contact, they produce very nasty explosions."

The boy's eyes went wide as he looked down at the ingredients he'd, doubtless, randomly pulled from his bag and arrayed around his textbook to play with. As soon as he figured out which things Draco had referred to, while the latter patiently waited for him to sort himself, he immediately moved them as far away from each other as possible; several others made moves to check their own ingredients, while several others snickered.

Draco, meanwhile, tried not to smile; he thought he'd just figured out one of the students to whom he'd quickly be offering help outside of lessons. Nevertheless, he silenced the giggling children with a quick look, and then told them all, "Now, then, for starters...Please open your copies of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ to page fifteen. I think—I'm sorry, what was your name?" He paused to indicate the Gryffindor boy he'd addressed earlier.

"Jackson Kennedy, sir—er, Professor," the boy responded sheepishly.

"I think Mr Kennedy has given us a very good place to begin the year," Draco finished, finally letting a fraction of a smile onto his face, more for the boy's comfort than anything else.

* * *

_Well...can't have avoided it forever, at least,_ Draco thought to himself as he ascended the marble staircase for the first time in two days. It was dinnertime and he was inescapably, unbelievably hungry now, having foregone meals throughout the first day of lessons just to avoid going into the Great Hall. He knew that two of his former classmates had begun teaching the year before he had, classmates that he had ridiculed, even attacked during school and during the war before he had defected. It was true that he had switched sides, that he had even fought somewhat bravely at the Battle of Hogwarts, but some wounds couldn't be healed by time alone.

His left forearm began to itch as though it had read his mind; honestly, sometimes he was concerned the Mark _could_ read his mind, even though he knew that was absurd. Voldemort was gone, he was never coming back, and it was time for him to move on like everybody else had.

Only that was difficult when everybody else continued to stare at him like he was the last Death Eater left alive.

That had been the reason he had spent the start of term feast skulking in his rooms in the dungeons. He dreaded seeing the looks on the faces of the other staff members, nearly all of them being ex-Order of the Phoenix members, when they saw him for the first time. They all knew that he had taken over Slughorn's old post, finally giving the man a peaceful retirement, but that didn't mean they were happy with McGonagall's decision.

It was funny. He'd always thought she'd liked him least of all out of his teachers while he'd been a student, but somehow she trusted him enough to let him return to Hogwarts to teach the next generation of bright young witches and wizards. Someday soon he thought he'd have to ask her why.

Draco stepped foot onto the landing of the castle's main floor, a few straggling students passing him on their way toward the open doors of the warm and inviting Great Hall; at least, it used to be inviting, those years ago. _You're a professor now. They're all adults in there...kind of...Get your head out of your arse and just face it. Gotta eat sometime_, he told himself firmly, and after a steadying deep breath, he set off toward the doors.

As soon as he passed through them he was greeted with a sight so familiar it nearly knocked him off his feet; he had to pause briefly just to take it in. The enchanted ceiling up above was purple and blue, the twilight hue streaked with dark pink clouds, candles hanging in the barely visible vaulted arches like little flickering stars. The four house tables stretched out before him, each bench lined with students eagerly enjoying roast chicken, turkey legs, kippers, and just about every other kind of food he could imagine. It brought him right back to the last time he had seen such a sight, the night before he had watched his mentor murder Albus Dumbledore.

His grey eyes were drawn up the center of the room and to the long staff table. It seemed very far away, miles even, from his position in the doorway. Most of the teachers had their heads together, smiling and discussing this and that, but as soon as Neville Longbottom, who had returned to teach Herbology, spotted him, silence began to radiate away from him and down the table like nuclear fallout. The older teachers, McGonagall, Flitwick, Babbling, Binns, and Vector, appeared largely unconcerned. The new professors, however, had all taken up staring at him, including Trelawney who, he thought, ought to know better.

Draco gulped, unable to help himself. He hated the way they were all looking at him, like he didn't belong in the castle after what he'd done. The worst part was that, even as he attempted to continue to atone for his actions, he agreed with them.

Steeling himself, he moved along the wall as opposed to walking up the center aisle, and decided to circumvent the room in order to reach the table. Walking up the Slytherin side, he nodded at a few of the students he'd seen in class that day who decided to wave at him but otherwise kept his expression neutral as he approached the table. As he drew closer, he saw that the only open seat was between Mary Turning, a Ravenclaw who'd been three years above him in school, and Hermione Granger.

_This can't possibly get any worse._

After another hard swallow and another steadying breath, which did nothing to steady him, he walked behind Mary and took the open seat. Wordlessly, and without looking to either side of him, he filled his plate with as little movement as possible, extremely careful to give them both as wide a berth as he could.

He'd only just taken his first bite when Mary quietly said, also without looking at him, "My dad died in the war, you know."

Draco finished chewing, not very hungry anymore, and kept his eyes on his plate. "I'm very sorry to hear that."

"I'm sure you are," she continued, her voice still quiet, only now it was a venomous kind of quiet. "I'm sure you're sorry about everybody who got killed now it's over and you've come onto the right side."

Draco didn't answer her.

"You're completely pathetic," she went on, her voice constricted as she tried not to raise it. "Turning over just as you realized you were all finished. I'm glad you've got to live with it all, with what you've done. I hope you've still got the Mark on you, I hope it writhes around every time you look at it—"

"Mary, that's enough!"

Another hushed voice had cut across her, and although Draco still did not look up from his plate, he paused as he realized that it had been Hermione who had spoken.

Mary looked scandalized. "What?" she asked, shocked.

"Stop it, just stop. The war is...is over now, it doesn't do any good to—"

"Are you _defending_ him?" Mary asked, no longer whispering now that she had caught on to what was happening.

Hermione leaned away a little, a startled look on her face as though she had been caught red-handed. "Of course not—"

"Because _you_ of _all_ people should know better than that, after all you did to—"

"I am _not_ defending him!" Hermione burst out suddenly, offense quite clear in her tone. She seemed to recover herself quickly, however, as she immediately grew hushed once more and hurriedly continued, "Obviously this isn't about taking sides, I'm only trying to say that we're at the top of a room full of students. This is hardly the appropriate place to have this conversation."

Draco still had not looked up, but he could feel the daggers Mary glared at Hermione move straight through him. "I'm not hungry anymore," she veritably growled as she threw her napkin down onto the table and stood, knocking her chair back about a foot before she stalked out of the hall.

Hermione huffed in silent indignation.

Draco continued to keep his eyes on his plate, although he hadn't lifted his fork since he'd taken his first bite. A downcast, faraway look had crept into his silver eyes, as though he had suffered a long, painful history with the chicken he was staring at and it had only just now come back to taunt him once more. Without paying any attention to his movements, he gently pressed the prongs of his fork into a chunk of roast potato.

"Thank you," he murmured, so quietly he might not have been heard.

He didn't notice the startled, troubled expression on Hermione's face.


End file.
